


Front of a Building

by TheInvisibleSpoon



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: (i either didn't write tags or they were deleted), Anger, Damn, Fear, Gen, Grief, Insanity, Manipulation, Panic Attack, SUBJECT TO CHANGE, Sadness, Surgery, Too late now, Violence, WKM mentions, alcoholism/drinking mentions, gunshot/gun mentions, i could have sworn i wrote specific tags, i don't know what else was in these tags, well uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-17 22:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInvisibleSpoon/pseuds/TheInvisibleSpoon
Summary: Ego Manor is held in a temperamental balance of suppression and secrets. What happens when their facades crack? What happens when those secrets won’t stay hidden? But of course, it’s probably nothing. Just awhisperof the wind.Find thison Tumblrto see the full thing and to see what secrets people have found in each chapter's notes. There are a lot of secrets hidden in these.[Edit: everything up to Chapter 9 (chapter 5 on Tumblr) was originally posted on Tumblr. It will now be updated on Ao3 only because there are things I can't do with Tumblr that I can do here]**NOTE: I started writing this between Who Killed Markiplier and Wilford Motherloving Warfstache. Therefore, anything from WMW and on IS NOT and WILL NOT be canon to this story.Thanks!





	1. What Goes On Behind the Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While this is my first time posting on Ao3, I posted the very [first chapter](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/168550855476/front-of-a-building-chapter-1-what-goes-on) on Tumblr on December 14th, 2017. I plan to update this intermittently until it is up to date with Tumblr. Notes at the end for thoughts and stuff I can reveal without spoilers ~~and if you know me, you'll understand how hard that is~~. Enjoy!  
>  _Word Count:_ 1130  
>  _Chapter warnings at the end to avoid spoilers._

The bed was hard.

It wasn’t truly, he knew— others would sink into his bed like it was water, remarking at its softness, but Dark only felt the bed as cold concrete. The specially-made mattress was not to blame, but he gave it a full punch anyway. For a moment, his shell broke with a sickening crack, but he brought himself back in another moment. He listened to the quiet of the night around him, not even crickets daring to climb this high up the Ego Manor. The empty room felt— as it often did— like a cage. Though the large balcony doors were clear glass, he disliked the feeling of entrapment the room gave— he felt it on himself too often for it to be comfortable. He glanced at a side table, the shadow of a cane barely visible in the low light. He turned over under an insurmountable amount of blankets that did nothing for the chill plaguing him, and let the old argument wash over him.

_You know it’s not his fault, you hypocrite._

_That doesn’t excuse what he did, Celine!_

The monochromatic aura around him jumped from a dominant red to an overpowering blue. His shell broke again, splitting himself into two halves of pain and rage before settling back into one monotone gaze. This happened entirely too often for his liking, but it was a constant; a grim sort of comfort.

A fire of rage rekindled within him, but his temperature remained ever icy. Realizing this was another sleepless night (among weeks of the same) he glitched into standing, the pile of blankets caving in on itself with nothing to hold the mountain up anymore. He strode through the double doors to the silent night.

The stone balcony walk— which wrapped around the entirety of the top floor— was empty, except for a few stray leaves, eager for the coming of fall. A light breeze ruffled his silk pajamas, and he paused for a moment, enjoying the sensation. A heat wave had recently vacated the area, and the rush of cold air was bliss. Dark first checked that his only neighbor was asleep. Wilford slept soundly, sprawled across his multicolored bed and snoring softly. The top floor’s rooms were abandoned of people, aside from these two. Wilford had always been a bit of a baby, eccentric though he was. Dark preferred the isolation, interrupted only by Wilford’s antics. Dark turned from his friend and tucked his hands behind his back, staring out into the night. The grounds of this new manor were very similar to the old one, a swirling mass of finely tuned green. He wasn’t sure which ego found pleasure in gardening. Dark was often too cooped up in his room to notice.

He took in a breath of fresh air and stared at the stars. They twinkled with renewed energy, shining valiantly against the utter darkness. All was quiet.

Mark had liked the stars.

He found the fire in his chest growing hotter as his temperature grew colder. He felt sure the glass doors behind him were icing over, but he couldn’t hear it over the deafening ringing and the screaming and the sound of reality breaking around him.

_He’s a traitor!_

_It’s not his fault, Damien!_

_Tell that to my body, Celine!_

_Shut UP!_

Breathing heavily, he restored his broken form to find himself lying flat on his back, still staring at the expanse of black. If his heart had still beat, he imagined it would be racing. He wasn’t sure how long his breakdown had lasted, but he hadn’t lost control like that in quite some time. The ice had receded from the doors after half an hour, Dark still flat on his back, his mind buzzing and hollow. After another half hour, Wilford came through his doors rather hesitantly. He rarely saw Dark in such a subdued state, and the results of when he was were never favorable.

“Uh… Dark? Are you alright?”

The strangely quiet voice of the closest thing Dark had for a friend brought him back to his senses, and his blank eyes met Will’s. For three seconds (or three minutes) the shattered souls stared at each other. Then, in one quick, fluid motion, Dark pushed himself off of the ground and into a standing position. His feet were spaced a little unevenly, arms hanging loosely by his side, hair disheveled, and his expression uncertain. It was highly unusual to be caught like this, as he was well versed in manipulation and deception, but Wilford had caught him off guard. For the first time in a long time, he wavered on the truth and the lies— the truth brought a harsh light and painful relief, but the lies were comfortingly enticing…

Wilford saved him the trouble of his decision by speaking first.

“Are you okay?”

Dark couldn’t help it—he let a small, humorless chuckle escape his lips, falling into his usual stance with a steady air of nonchalance.

Typical Wilford.

He looked into Wilford's eyes and lied with expertise. If deception was an Olympic sport, he would have won a gold medal.

“Of course I am. I was merely stargazing.”

Wilford could tell something was off. He'd have to be an idiot not to realize it, but he let it slide for now. Instead, his face split into a grin.

“A nice night for it, eh?”

The stars were absolutely marvelous at this time, though dawn was quickly approaching, overtaking the darkest blues with brilliant reds, highlights of swirling purples where they clashed until the sky was a cacophony of color, clouds separating the madness with soft pinks and oranges. It was, perhaps, the most beautiful morning in the history of the human era. Alas, before Dark could witness the conclusion of the dawn, he had retired to his room again. The balcony door closed with a muted click, and he was alone again— or, as alone as he could ever be. The new dawn cast shadows across his room, his own mysteriously absent. After he dressed, he began to pace the space, running his plans through his mind for the two hundred and forty second time. Decades of planning had lead to this, and he could not spoil it now. He glanced again at the black cane with a dull silver handle, abandoned on a side table and dusty.

He stopped abruptly and looked to his sole mirror, cracked and bruised as it was, and straightened the tie of his best suit. For the briefest of moments, he swore he felt someone staring back at him, from the corner of his eye…

Stomach turning with twisted nostalgia, he turned sharply and strode to the exit, stepping into the hall with the snap of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter Warnings:_ Insomnia, intrusive thoughts (technically), panic attack. Let me know if I missed something!
> 
> This fic is actually the first fic I ever posted on Tumblr, so I guess it makes sense for it to be the first thing I post on Ao3. My writing has seriously evolved since then. Also, I am really not a fan of non-canon stuff, so I try to stick as close to it as possible. Throughout this, you may notice characters acting... out of character. Don't worry about it.


	2. Shiver, but Shiver with a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few Egos have breakfast.
> 
> The second chapter was posted on December 17th, 2017 on [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/168660912206/doyouthinkyouaresafe). Notes at the end of the chapter for stuff I can reveal as well as chapter warnings.  
> Word Count: 1258

The kitchen on the second floor smelled like cookies, filling the room from the chestnut cabinets, to the granite countertops, and to the dark and scarred kitchen table, on its literal last legs.

The Egos rarely had a meal altogether, as each Ego had rather scattered schedules during the day. Some Egos (namely, Dark) rarely ever came down from their rooms, except when on business. This rather annoyed some of the more irritable of the egos, especially since Dark hadn't shown his face in weeks.

“...the focus switches for a moment to the Host, who is narrating under his breath, barely audible over the noise of the Chef’s cooking—”

Currently, the Host and Chef Iplier were the only ones in the kitchen for breakfast. There were three that were often the first ones up— the Host found little time to sleep, too restless to fully doze— the doctor often had morning paperwork to do, and he considered any doctor work to be malpractice without his first cup of coffee— the chef found himself too awake in the early mornings to sleep long into the day, and anyway, there were cakes to be made.

Speaking of the doctor, he trudged through the side door of the kitchen, the door swinging half-heartedly after him. Chef Iplier looked up from his enthusiastic cooking style to watch his brother, who pulled down his coffee mug with the label “I'M NEVER WRONG” printed on it. Dr. Iplier had bags under his eyes and looked exceedingly irritable, labcoat wrinkled and slightly smelly.

“...once again, the focus is switched to the Host, who has noticed Dr. Iplier’s arrival and narrates over his action of pouring his coffee two inches too far to the left of the mug and onto the granite kitchen counter where—”

Dr. Iplier looked down blearily at the stream of lukewarm coffee splattering against the counter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” the doctor grumbled, readjusting his hand position so the liquid poured into the mug instead of onto the counter. His brother, ever helpful, abandoned his mixing bowls to rush over and clean up the dripping liquid before it could do any more damage.

“...Oh. Thanks,” Dr. Iplier remarked.

“Don't mention it,” Chef Iplier quickly replied, throwing away the sopping wet paper towels.

“...the Host begins to inquire of Dr. Iplier’s ragged looking appearance as the doctor inter—”

“Ragged? You're one to talk; you really need to get those bleeding eyes checked out.”

The chef looked up from mixing again. “That was rude,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

Dr. Iplier sighed, conceding an apology before slumping into a seat at the counter. “I know, I know, I'm sorry Host. I'm really worked up over this patient; if he doesn't do what he's supposed to, he could end up at the hospital for the last time. Bad news for sure.”

The Chef transferred the contents of one bowl into the other, glancing up at his brother. “There are some things you just can't help, doc—”

There was a loud slam at the door, which made all but the Host jump. A few seconds of silence, another slam. Then, muffled footsteps and words—

“Delayed; rerouting…”

“Google, what the hell are you—”

The main door swung open, revealing Wilford Warfstache, in his signature pale yellow and pink, holding the door open for Google. Apparently, he had been unable to open the door, and was now staring blankly into the kitchen. Completing his rerouting, Google ignored the open door, turned precisely ninety degrees and made his way to the side door.

“God damn it, Google.”

Warfstache let himself into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table, adding to the number of unhappy customers. Dr. Iplier spoke to Google, who had finally “Arrived” through the side door, asking, “Are you on default again? I know you have a bug where it can occasionally switch back in the mornings.”

“Th-th-there is an eight six p-point five five five five five five one ch-chance of pl-plausib-bility.”

Dr. Iplier grimaced. “Here, let me get that for you—” he strode to Google and flipped off a switch labeled “MAIN”. Google shut down, hanging his head and eyes dimming. After a moment of tweaking the system, Dr. Iplier switched Google on again.

“Th-thank you. That is much better,” Google acknowledged and took a seat next to Warfstache.

“Eggs?” asked the chef, a plate of steaming scrambled eggs with drizzled hot sauce slid in front of Warfstache. Dr. Iplier looked around at the interaction in confusion.

“Weren't you just making pie?”

“It was cake,” the chef clarified. Not getting a solid answer, the doctor turned to Wilford.

“How did he do that?”

Wilford gestured wildly, wiggling his fingers; “Mmmmagic.”

Dr. Iplier looked at the man less than fondly.

“Your brain is more scrambled than those eggs.”

Before Wilford could come up with a nasty retort, the Host intervened, raising his voice from his usual murmur.

“...the Host interrupts the conversation before it can escalate further, and instead asks Wilford about the whereabouts of Darkiplier, as the Host admits he knows Dark had a difficult night—”

Both the chef, the doctor, and Google hurriedly looked around at Wilford and searched his face for any sign of danger.

“Yes, well… it’s rude to talk about people behind their back,” supplied Wilford, “because they might turn around and stab you in _your_ back, and then it all would be one bloody backstabbing mess.”

“Is he coming down at all today?” questioned the doctor with an edge of resentment.

Wilford paused, and he was suddenly dark eyes and darker words. 

“It’s not your concern.”

Despite his colorfulness and his boisterous personality, he could still be terrifying without trying. All four egos quickly backed down and resumed their tasks. The chef, back to baking; the doctor, back to coffee-stained paperwork; Google, back to searching for updates; the Host, back to narrating under his breath. Their respective imaginations ran away with them, creating the worst possible scenarios. A few attempts at conversation were made, but they teetered off and ultimately led nowhere. Chef Iplier was cleaning up breakfast when they heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Five heads turned towards the door simultaneously, and through the door came—

“Dark!” Wilford exclaimed.

“...moves smoothly through the oak door, dressed in his best suit. Dark stops and straightens his tie before speaking—”

“Good morning, everyone.”

None of them had expected Dark to come down today, and certainly not in such a pristine condition. Google zoomed in on Dark and saw not even a speck of dust on his shoulders. Dark began to walk to the adjacent room, attention on getting outside.

“Wait!” Wilford got up from the table and nearly ran to catch up with him, the other egos simply watching on. He followed Dark from the kitchen to the front room, through the front door, and outside the manor, leaving the first floor behind them.

“Wait!” Wilford said again, placing himself in front of the entity. “I'm going with you.”

Dark stared at him incredulously.  _How had he not seen this coming?_

“Wilford, please, it’s a quick trip,” he said, sidestepping around the obstacle.

“Perfect!” Wilford countered, blocking his path. “Then I won’t be gone long.”

“Trust me, it’s not important.”

“Then why are you wearing your best suit?”

He found he had no answer for this. Dark kept his face impassive, weighing his options. “Fine. You can come along.”

Wilford smiled, falling into step with Dark.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

Dark smiled softly. “On a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: passive aggressiveness, and wow that's it
> 
> Fun times!!! I'm updating this after for-fucking-ever  
> It's revealed that Dark is very much a recluse and barely comes out of his room and that he hasn't come out for weeks at this point. This annoys some of the Egos, but nothing much past that. Google's introduction was very fun to write. Also, Google has a big ol' OFF switch and the Host knows things somehow? I remember this being really fun to write in general. The first chapter was kind of a spur of the moment decision, and I didn't have any of the things planned that I do now. This chapter opens up the world a bit more and introduces some main points.


	3. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/168663442796/base64canuntangletheweb) on December 17th, 2017.

_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_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was already decoded, so I'll just post it here for you. 
> 
> Base64 to text:  
> Do they think they are safe? I feed off of it; the anger, the fear, the guilt, the regret. They think they are safe here. My favorites are the oldest—so many memories! Seventy years is a long time. I feed off of it—their anger, their fear, their guilt, their regret. I wonder how far I can push everyone?  
> Oh no—but two are leaving! Do they think they are safe? I can follow.


	4. Party Tattoos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark gets an unwelcome surprise.
> 
> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/168872939926/droppinghintsliketheyarebabies) on December 23rd, 2017. Notes at the end of the chapter for stuff I can reveal as well as chapter warnings.  
> Word Count: 1131

He hissed through his teeth, clutching his newest bullet wound as the sun beat down on him and the dirty concrete. It had been going so well, but he had been foolish, had been too thrilled to see them again; he had gotten ahead of himself too quickly to realize the obvious.

Dark had caught them, pulled them away from that bastard he had once called a friend, a lover, and a prisoner to his schemes. He had spoken smoothly, doing everything he could to make the former DA trust him. How Mark had found them, he couldn’t be sure of, but the realization hit him as he woke up on the concrete, a bullet wound in his chest.

That was not the DA.

How could it have been; there had been no sense of recognition anywhere in that face, and he doubted their ability to successfully hide it.

So, logically, if that was not the DA…

Where were they?

His attention was brought back suddenly by another stab of pain in his chest. There was no sign of anything wrong, but the pain inside him burned with such intensity he thought this time, he might truly die.

Dismissing the thought quickly, he focused on keeping himself alive, the three souls representing him fueling his consciousness and power. While he knew he wouldn’t die,  _could_ not die, it was hell to keep his threading scraps together. He couldn’t maintain this.

Wilford would be fine, they had planned to meet back at the manor anyways. So, with a little energy, he bent reality around him. As he swirled the essence of the universe, however, he thought he saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eye.

_**noc laf ilow** , o̡͡͏̕l̸d҉̡ ̸̧̧͜͝f̛͢͟͜͞r̷̢įe̵͝n̶̵d̸҉̧͞._

In an instant, Dark crashed into the wall of the doctor’s study, books falling off of a nearby bookshelf, pain and distraction making the jump unstable.

Dr. Iplier dropped his mug, the ceramic crashing onto the floor. “What the h- _Dark_ _?"_

For a moment, Dark stared at the place the shadow had been, transfixed by the memory of the distorted voice. His concentration only broke when the doctor rushed over, stepping on books and broken shards of his mug to help him.

“Dark, what the hell happened?”

Dark clutched his chest, the pain radiating through him in waves. He was breathing heavily, nearly all of his focus on keeping himself together. With his free hand, Dark grabbed the collar of the panicking Doctor’s coat, pulling his ear close to his mouth. And, with an effort, Dark managed to speak.

“Lock…door…”

He didn’t trust any of the egos, and he wanted to keep this as private as possible. In this state, he didn’t have enough left of himself to play the part of normality. Thankfully, the doctor didn’t argue, and Dark put his back to the wall he had been leaning on, groaning and aura flickering.

Without another question, Dr. Iplier swept off the items on his desk and helped Dark onto it. The doctor began to pull Dark's hand away to assess the damage when Dark spoke again.

“Don’t panic…”

The next hour passed by excruciatingly slowly, blissful sleep failing him even now.

The shuffle of surgical tools.

White-hot pain crashing through his broken body.

His barely-contained screams echoing off of wood panels.

The clink of the clean gray bullet on the metal tray.

And finally, sleep came.

-oOo-

Dr. Iplier threw away the last of his favorite mug, the ceramic clattering against more broken pieces. Brushing his hands of dust and dirt, he glanced around at the man on the table. It had been an hour, and he had still not opened his eyes. He barely glitched now, unlike the distortions that had ripped Dark in three during the operation. He swallowed nervously, thankful he no longer had to deal with performing difficult surgery on a body that defied the laws of physics. As soon as he had begun, he had realized Dark was most certainly abnormal, even more so than the rest of the egos here.

Even at the first sight of the wound, the doctor knew there was something wrong. Normal wounds bled, but his patient’s didn’t. It just… existed, a small circular wound with a bullet lodged inside his heart. He tried giving Dark an anesthetic, but the medicine failed. As the Doctor extracted the bullet from his heart, he also realized that said heart failed to beat. If the doctor didn’t know any better, he would have thought Dark had already…

Dr. Iplier stood in that spot, fidgeting with the remains of his mug, hoping against hope everything would turn out okay.

-oOo-

Everything hurt. He opened his eyes slowly, and even that small movement consisted entirely of pain.

“William…?”

He gasped, but air would not come. None of his functions were working, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think—

Who was he? Images flashed through his mind: Celine, Damien, _~~**̨҉̕ ̡̕͟͡ ̶̧̕ ͏̕ ̸̡͡ ͜͠҉̧.**~~_ —

He was Dark.

The glitches settled. Dark pulled himself together and sat up to see Dr. Iplier standing in the corner of the room, watching him.

“Dark! You’re awake.” He seemed rather relieved at this fact.

“Yes. I… thank you for your help, doctor,” he replied hoarsely. Dark’s memory was coming back to him with every detail of this horrible afternoon.

Dr. Iplier walked over to the entity, his intent on making sure Dark was alright, which he most obviously wasn’t.

Dark looked down at himself. Now that he sat up, the sheet had fallen away, leaving his chest exposed. He saw what appeared to be stitches covering the wound.

“Stitches, Doctor? You must have noticed by now, that will not heal the wound.”

“Yes, and I have some questions about that.” Dr. Iplier stopped in front of him, a determined expression on his face. “Why are you like this, Dark? And,” the Doctor gestured to his stomach, “where is _that_ bullet wound from?”

Avoiding eye contact, he buttoned up his shirt, panic building in his chest. _What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he keep up his facade recently?_

Dark swallowed. “That is… none of your concern.” He stood up, pushing past the doctor, and made his way to the door.

The doctor watched Dark leaving, imagining Dark retreating to his room, leaving himself with a million questions he would likely never get answers to, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out another question.

“Who is William?”

Dark froze halfway to the door. His distortions became worse, and the ringing became unbearable. Anger filled Dark to the brim, threatening to spill over into an utter rage.

“No one important,” he spat.

The sound of the door slamming echoed throughout the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: gunshot/gun mentions, surgery and everything involved with that 
> 
> This is happening that same morning if you couldn't tell. Soooooooo the DA is missing? Dark's been shot and is very dead already, so Dr. Iplier is very confused and concerned. MUG SYMBOLISM!!!! "noc laf ilow" is an anagram for "i can follow". Dr. Iplier is starting to ask some questions. Alsoooo little things are _really_ starting to pop up now. Fuuuun!


	5. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/168873395606/ifyoucanhearthis) on December 23rd, 2017.

_01010011 01010011 01000010 00110011 01100010 00110010 00110101 01101011 01011010 01011000 01001001 01100111 01100001 01010111 01011001 01100111 01100100 01000111 01101000 01101100 01100101 01010011 01000010 01110010 01100010 01101101 00111001 00110011 01001001 01000101 01101011 01100111 01011001 01010111 00110000 01100111 01100011 00110011 01010010 01110000 01100010 01000111 01110111 01100111 01100001 01000111 01010110 01111001 01011010 01010011 01110111 01100111 01100001 01010111 00110100 01100111 01011001 01010011 01000010 00110011 01011001 01011000 01101011 01110101 01001001 01000101 00111001 01101101 01001001 01000111 01001110 01110110 01100100 01011000 01001010 01111010 01011010 01010011 01110111 01100111 01010011 01010011 01000010 01101010 01100010 00110011 01010110 01110011 01011010 01000111 00110100 01101110 01100100 01000011 01000010 01101011 01100001 01010111 01010101 01110011 01001001 01000111 01001010 00110001 01100100 01000011 01000010 01001010 01001001 01000111 01001110 01110110 01100100 01010111 01111000 01101011 01100010 01101001 01100100 00110000 01001001 01000111 01111000 01110000 01100100 01101101 01010101 01110011 01001001 01000111 01010110 01110000 01100100 01000111 01101000 01101100 01100011 01101001 00110100 01100111 01010011 01010011 01100100 01110100 01001001 01000111 01110000 00110001 01100011 00110011 01010001 01100111 01100011 00110011 01010010 00110001 01011001 00110010 01110011 01100111 01100001 01000111 01010110 01111001 01011010 01010011 01110111 01100111 01100001 01010111 00110100 01100111 01100010 01000111 01101100 01110100 01011001 01101101 00111000 01110011 01001001 01000111 01000101 01100111 01011010 01101101 00111001 01110110 01100010 01000111 01101100 01111010 01100001 01000011 01000010 01101011 01011010 01011000 01010010 01101100 01011001 00110011 01010010 01110000 01100100 01101101 01010101 01100111 01100100 00110010 01101100 00110000 01100001 01000011 01000010 01110101 01100010 01111001 01000010 01111010 01100010 00110011 01010110 01110011 01001100 01100111 00111101 00111101_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Binary to text:  
> SSB3b25kZXIgaWYgdGhleSBrbm93IEkgYW0gc3RpbGwgaGVyZSwgaW4gYSB3YXkuIE9mIGNvdXJzZSwgSSBjb3VsZG4ndCBkaWUsIGJ1dCBJIGNvdWxkbid0IGxpdmUsIGVpdGhlci4gSSdtIGp1c3Qgc3R1Y2sgaGVyZSwgaW4gbGltYm8sIGEgZm9vbGlzaCBkZXRlY3RpdmUgd2l0aCBubyBzb3VsLg==
> 
> Base64 to text:  
> I wonder if they know I am still here, in a way. Of course, I couldn't die, but I couldn't live, either. I'm just stuck here, in limbo, a foolish detective with no soul.


	6. Memories Painted with Much Brighter Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone sits down for a delightful meal. 
> 
> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/169198149216/front-of-a-building-chapter-4-memories-painted) on January 1st, 2018. Notes at the end of the chapter for stuff I can reveal as well as chapter warnings.  
> Word Count: 1390

Someone  **w** as laughing. It was dark, and he blinked harder, attempting to clear the blackness with no results. The name came to his lips without his consent.

“Celine?”

The laughing was all around him, and unintelligible whispers too. The scene came to him like a light switch being turned on. A woman in black was running away from him, the endless path of gray stretching on forever, the void on both sides. He ran after her instinctively, knowing he had to catch her. The whispers grew in volume, and the path became steeper. Everything ached; he was so tired, exhausted even. She climbed easily, but he fell behind, slipping out of reach, falling and falling into the endless void, darkness surrounding him…

A man caught  **h** im, strong arms enveloping him. He could see a dark suit, a black ribbon, and he was warm… The man whispered in his ear, voice dark and unforgiving.

“You should have died then, not me. How could you let me die when you deserved it more?”

He shook his head wildly, blinking tears back from his eyes. The name came easily, too.

“Damien, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Not sorry enough.” The man dropped him again, and he fell endlessly into the cold void, falling and falling…

A voice. Scared? Fading, in and out.

“…it’s okay…Will…wake up…”

He opened his eyes. Dark stood above him, his aura weak and flickering. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily. The sun beat down on the two of them. They were on the roof of a building, he realized. Had he been shot? He turned his head and saw a man in a police uniform laying on the roof also. The policeman didn't seem to be moving. He was twisted unnaturally, a thick red liquid pooling where the man lay. His own eyes drifted to the gun that had fallen out of his hand. No, he couldn't have, he couldn’t be… The joke dawned on him. He began to laugh, slow at first, but soon it was hysterical. His own words whispered to him.

_“…the same thing I think every day…where did it all go so wrong?”_

He was falling again, and he knew he wouldn’t stop, flipping over and over in the darkness, still laughing as the tears rolled off of his face, leaving a trail behind him in flight. But still, he fell, and he knew the ground would find him in the end, as all consequences would, and he was falling and falling as the whispers became screams filling his ears and he begged for them to stop just  _stop screaming please_  and he fell and fell and fell and fell and fell and—

Wilford bolted upright, breathing heavily. A few stray tears paved their way down his face.

“…hahaha…” What was he laughing at? His dream slipped from his mind like water through shaking hands. He gazed around his room, and out into the night. It was dark out, and the stars spun slowly in the sky. Why was he crying? He shrugged, turned over  **i** n his blankets, and fell back asleep.

Poor Wilford would forget  _all about this_  in the morning.

Won’t you, Wilford?

-oOo-

“I brought breakfast!” cried Bim in a singsong tone. This was one of the rare times all of the egos had breakfast together, and because it was Saturday, Chef Iplier wasn’t cooking. The  _thud_ of the greasy takeout bags hitting the table had most of the egos letting out indistinct noises of approval.

Ed Edger was the first to dig in. “Damn swell to have a nice greasy meal here! No offense to you, o’ course, Chef.”

“While I don’t very much appreciate greasy foods,” conceded the chef, “I’m glad we can all have a meal together where I’m not off in the corner cooking.”

“It is an appealing deviation in routine,” agreed Google, taking nothing. Silver Shepherd was handed a breakfast sandwich as his hands weren't exactly suited to take one himself. King of the Squirrels took an entire bag, presumably to later feed his army. 

Bing took a radically spiced hash browns bag, saying, “Sweet, Bim!”

Jim eagerly took two breakfast burritos, one for him and one for his brother. “Thanks, not-Jim!”

“It’s nothing, Jim-squared,” Bim replied with a  **s** tunning smile. “Host, aren’t you going to eat anything?”

“…the Host would like to respectfully turn down any food Bim Trimmer has made or offered to the Host—”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Host! What’s so bad about fast food?”

“…the Host would like to inquire exactly how fast the food was made—”

Bim chuckled good-naturedly. “If you have something against minimum wage high schoolers, take it up with them, not me.”

People laughed and talked and reached over each other for food. The morning was lively and happy, but Dr. Iplier glanced repeatedly at the door. His healthy breakfast consisted of bitter black coffee with a side of coffee. His precious labcoat had a number of small stains. The doctor stopped himself from looking around at the closed door once again, the ache in his neck worsening. When had he become so  **p** aranoid? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Wilford sat next to him, spirited and carefree, enjoying an omelet. Dr. Iplier nudged him gently, wondering if his question was ill-advised. The name had been on his mind since Dark's surgery three weeks ago. No one had seen Dark since, but Wilford was the only ego crazy enough to get close, and if anyone knew, it was him.

“Look…” How should he phrase this? “Do you— well, do you or Dark, I mean—"

“Breathe for a second, doctor," Wilford said, taking an unconcerned bite of his **e** ggs.

“Listen, I…”  _Why are you so worried? Just ask the question._  “…do you know anyone named William?”

Wilford stopped, a bite of omelet halfway to his lips. He stared blankly at the doctor. The sound around him faded to a quiet, monotonous buzz.

William. William? He had never known anyone with that name. Had he? No. Of course not. But  _had_ he? William, William, William who? A faint sound of whispering grew. Long gone and fuzzy memories fought their way to the surface. A woman in black. A man in a suit. A red figure on the ground. A body, falling from him, his fault. All his fault.

His fork clattered to the plate, meal forgotten. The chatter around the room had quieted, and now everyone was looking at Wilford with varying degrees of worry. A small choked sound escaped past his lips.

“…everyone except Wilford, Dr. Iplier, and the Host leaves the  **r** oom quickly and quietly—”

In a matter of seconds, the room was empty except for those three. The only noise came from the Host’s quiet narration and Wilford’s heavy breathing. Wilford was now shaking slightly. The doctor looked incredibly alarmed, reaching for the man’s shoulder desperately.

“Wilford, are you—”

“…Dr. Iplier puts his hand down at the command of the Host, who has stood up from his chair and made his way around to their side of the table. The Host then asks Dr. Iplier what the  _hell_ he did to Wilford Warfstache—”

“All I asked was if he knew someone named William! I don't know what happened!” the doctor said defensively.

“…and as the Host sighs, Wilford Warfstache collapses right then and there—” Dr. Iplier moved the plate out of the way just in time for the  **s** haking man to fall on the kitchen table. “—and The Host, once making sure Wilford was alright, began to make his way to the door.”

“Hey!” The doctor jumped out of his chair. “What the hell is going on?”

“…to which the Host suggests that, if the Doctor really wishes to know, he should talk with the oldest egos here—”

Dr. Iplier looked down at the unconscious ego at the table. “You mean Dark and Wilford? No conversations with them _ever_ go well when I—”

“The Host interrupts Dr. Iplier before he can finish speaking. The Host tells him that those two are not the two oldest egos in the Manor. As the Host steps out into the hallway, he tells Dr. Iplier that the oldest egos are, in fact, the Jims.”

The door slammed on a sleeping man and stunned silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Nightmares, insanity, blood mention.
> 
> Let's seeeeee here. So, this nightmare that Wilford has doesn't really need an explanation. Maybe just… well, the Ned Affair is what that rooftop thing relates to. Past that, Bim and Host's interaction is hilarious to me and was fun to write. Dr. Iplier is not doing too well, obviously. Things like this wouldn't get to him this badly normally, but… Wilford just kinda breaks down here. The Host is shown to have _considerable_ power. And yes, folks, the oldest egos _are_ , in fact, the Jims.
> 
> Oh, and the bolded letters spell out "whispers".


	7. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/169198872396/mirrormirror) on January 1st, 2018.

_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_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hexadecimal to text:  
> 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
> 
> Base64 to text:  
> Mirror, mirror on the wall,  
> I'll play fair to watch them fall  
> Watch them fall as I once did  
> Though, back then, I was a kid
> 
> Spilling blood by spilling tears  
> Playing on their darkest fears  
> Telling lies and staying close  
> Watching as they grow morose
> 
> Easy to manipulate  
> The crazy and the pained  
> Easy to insinuate  
> Those older hands are stained
> 
> Can you hear me?  
> I am there.  
> I am whisp'ring in your ear.  
> Are you listening?  
> Listen hard.  
> I'm the last thing you will hear.


	8. You Waited Smiling for This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Iplier does some research.
> 
> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/174936058841/front-of-a-building-chapter-5-you-waited) on June 16th, 2018. Notes at the end of the chapter for stuff I can reveal as well as chapter warnings.  
> Word Count: 2054

Ego Manor had three floors. The top floor only held Dark and Wilford. The second floor held the kitchen, storage closets, bathrooms, and the rooms of Bing, the Jims, King of the Squirrels, Dr. Iplier, Chef Iplier, and Silver Shepherd. The first floor held a living room, a library, a recording studio, a clinic, bathrooms and the rooms of Host, Google, Ed Edger, and Bim Trimmer. It was less of a “manor” and more of a “really big house”, but everyone, if not lived together, existed together.

Dr. Iplier was helping Wilford Warfstache up the stairs to his room after the incident that had just occurred in the kitchen. It left him with more questions than answers, but at least he knew not to ask Wilford about this “William” guy again. He couldn’t say that he didn’t want to try again, however. He _needed_ to know what was happening. And if the cost was the rest of Wilford’s sanity… Dr. Iplier glanced at his charge, who was mumbling softly, barely conscious. The doctor shook his head; what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that to another ego, much less one of the oldest. But there was the thing— according to the Host, Wilford and Dark  _weren’t_ the oldest. According to the Host, it was the  _Jims_ , of all people. How much _did_ the Host know? That weirdo seemed to understand more than he was letting on.

Dr. Iplier was pulled out of his thoughts when Wilford tripped, nearly bringing down the both of them. “No, hey there, we’re going this way,” he urged in calm tones.

“…it’s my fault…” Wilford stumbled again, but Dr. Iplier caught him before anything else could happen. “…didn’t mean to, I swear…”

The doctor searched Wilford’s eyes, but they remained as unfocused as ever. “It's… okay, Wilford. It’s okay. Just come with me, alright?”

He said something indistinguishable, and Dr. Iplier took that as a confirmation. As they struggled down the hallway and into Wilford’s room, the doctor couldn’t help but pause at Wilford's door. Steadying the both of them, he glanced at the entrance to Dark’s room, only feet away. Three weeks had passed since, for lack of better words, Dark's surgery. He felt that there should have been some sign of trouble, some clue as to what was happening inside, but it was just a plain oak door, set apart from the faded yellow walls. Wilford lurched forward into his room before the doctor could get a longer look.

“Alright, alright, come on, in bed, let’s go…” With one last push, Wilford fell into his bed, dazed and confused. Dr. Iplier straightened up and stretched. The full weight of another person was always too much after too long. Wilford muttered something again, but it was barely audible.

“What was that?” Dr. Iplier asked, leaning in.

“…don’t leave me here. Don't…” Wilford’s face scrunched up at some unseen torment.

“Wilford, it’s fine. I’ll stay if you need—”

“…please, you’re all I have left. I’m sorry, don’t leave me, don't…” Wilford finally trailed off, sound asleep.

The doctor straightened up once again, confusion evident. Who was Wilford talking to? Who was William? _What the hell was going on?_

He leaned back, groaning, rubbing his face and calming his breathing. He needed… he needed coffee, he thought. Coffee was good. Coffee was glorious, as long as he didn't count how many cups he had already drunk. Fully intent on making his way back to the kitchen, he stepped out of Wilford’s room, but then stopped in the middle of the hallway. Slowly, he turned to the next door down. Did he dare check on Dark? Everyone avoided the top floor when possible, and no one ever went within five feet of Dark’s bedroom.

There were three steps between him and the door. Reluctantly, but fueled by curiosity and obligation, he took one of them.  _What are you so afraid of?_  He took the second.  _It’s just a door. Don’t be so paranoid._  He took the last and raised his hand, but before he could knock, he heard a sharp ringing noise coming from directly behind him. Whirling around, he locked eyes with Dark himself.

“D-dark! I didn’t see—”

“Clearly.”

“I was j-just, uh, bringing Wilford up, and—”

Dark rolled his eyes and pushed past the doctor, reaching for the handle.

“Wait!” Dr. Iplier caught Dark’s arm, who stilled. Slowly, Dark turned to stare at the doctor. He said nothing, but the ringing grew and his eyes flashed dangerously. Dr. Iplier let go and took a reflexive step back.

“What?” Dark asked through gritted teeth.

Dr. Iplier froze.  _Get out,_  part of his mind screamed at him. A bigger part told him to keep going. “Dark, are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been three weeks since anyone’s seen you, and well, you were, you know,  _shot_ , so—”

Dark’s aura cracked, and he muttered something under his breath as he turned the handle. “Leave me the hell alone,” he warned over his shoulder, and then the plain oak door slammed shut in Dr. Iplier’s face.

He let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, but he was still on edge. Before the door had shut, he had gotten a glimpse of the room beyond. It was completely torn apart; splintered wood from some type of furniture was scattered in a corner, the bed was overturned, the mirror was broken, and the lamp was laying in pieces on the ground. However, there was one thing left untouched. Not only was it intact, it was covered in dust— completely undisturbed. The doctor shut his eyes, trying to remember.

A curtain rod? No, definitely not. A pipe? Not quite; something else. Long, black, with a handle… a silver handle. Not a pipe. A cane.

-oOo-

The Jims were an odd pair. They were always out and about, reporting on one thing or another. No one disturbed them— the Jims were best left to their own devices, doing…whatever they did. As a result of their constant absence, their room was more often than not empty. So, the next day, Dr. Iplier found it easy to slip into their shared bedroom when no one was looking.

_The oldest egos, huh?_

He had reasoned that there was no extracting any helpful or reliable information from the pair, but as they recorded every event remotely interesting in their lives, their tapes might tell a different story. Looking at the boxes upon boxes of VHS tapes spilling out from the open closet, however, Dr. Iplier wished he could go back to his office and drop this entire thing. Groaning, he settled himself on the floor and pulled a box towards him.

Title after title previewed nothing but useless footage. He pushed aside a saga of sand castle related film to find a tape labeled “JELLY BEANS?!” An entire box told the thrilling tale of buying furniture at IKEA, and another revealed the secret conspiracy of oceans. After an agonizing two hours later, he was still finding nothing. Each title was more stupid than the last: “WRAPPING PAPER FIASCO!”, “BOOKS: THE MOVIE”, “CRAYON CANON!!”, “CORPSE ABDUCTION?”, “BIRDS IN TREES!”— wait. Corpse abduction? Since when was there a corpse? Dr. Iplier picked up a stack of VHS tapes held together by string and reread the first one again. No, that  _definitely_ said “corpse abduction”. He sat up straighter and turned the stack to see the rest of the titles. They read “SUSPECT WITH A SHOOTY?!”, “DEMONS JIM, DEMONS!!” and “DUMMY JIM REENACTS GRISLY SCENE!” This had to be what he was looking for. Cautious excitement flooded through him, and he eagerly undid the string, pulling out the first tape. He stood up (ow, that did  _not_ feel good), stepped over his haphazardly made piles, and slid the tape into the VHS slot below the TV.

The scene opened up on a shot of a manor. Words flashed across the screen: “Breaking News: Markiplier Manor.”

_Mark has never owned a manor._

Someone was shouting.

“Jim! Jim!” The camera panned to a shot of Jim, gesturing at the cameraman— his brother. “Jim, come on! I’ve got the shot!”

When was this made? Even for a VHS, this thing was old. He glanced down at the other tapes in his hand, but the date was either not marked or faded completely. He frowned and went back to watching the TV. A detective had just come into view.

The Jims had been spotted. The detective was now yelling from out of frame. “Hey! Who the hell are you? You listen, this is a crime scene!”

_Crime scene? Not only was there a manor that had never been known to exist, but a crime had been committed there?_

The Jims were sneaking into the room. The reporter gestured at an outline of a body, and soon after he held up a gun.

“This is pro _found_ , in the least,” he was saying.

_You got that right._

The tape ended in static. The excitement of success was gone, and Dr. Iplier was once again left with more questions than answers.

In went the second tape; except for more of the detective being shown, nothing helpful. In went the third; nothing helpful was in this tape either. He had begun to give up hope when the fourth tape came into view. The Jims were making their way into a room  _full_ of evidence. Dr. Iplier fumbled for the remote but finally managed to hit the pause button.

“Don’t trust the Seer,” he read aloud.  _The Seer? Who is the Seer?_

He continued the tape, starting and stopping to read parts of the scraps of paper littered across the walls and on the desk.

“…safari hunt gone wrong… mayor in legal trouble…” There were (what he guessed to be) names beneath pictures of people, but he couldn’t read them. “Fallen movie star… police remain clueless following celebrity death… celebrity actor in cahoots with beloved mayor…” So the movie star— the celebrity— died, and this guy was involved with a corrupt mayor? “…the colonel did it. The colonel did it, the colonel did it, the colonel…”

He should feel excited for knowing more now, shouldn’t he? Why, then, did it feel like being in the eye of a storm?

He let his mind wander over the evidence he just been given, the tape falling into static. Dr. Iplier was lost in thought when he heard the pounding of footsteps in the hall.

“We got it, Jim! We got the shot! Jim is going to be so—” Jim skidded to a halt, his brother running straight into him camera-first. “What are _you_ doing here?”

The doctor was about to say "I should ask you the same" when he realized he should  _not_ do that, considering this wasn't his room. “Uh,” is what he settled on instead.

“Hey! Those are our tapes!”

“Oh, I was just—” he clumsily hid the ones he was holding behind his back, but he was saved the trouble of finishing his statement by the cameraman gesturing at the other Jim. He was hovering over a half-empty box Dr. Iplier had stopped looking through. Reporter Jim peered over his brother’s shoulder. “Jim, look at that!”

The camera was already pointing at the box, so the Jim holding said camera compensated by zooming in further.

“Have you ever seen those tapes before, Jim?” Jim held up his mic to the box as if expecting it to answer.

“Tapes? What tapes?” Dr. Iplier stood and gazed into the box, too. Four tapes stood out from the rest, the black cover contrasting against its white title. The doctor reached in and picked them up. “ **Who Killed Markiplier?** ” he spoke aloud. He hadn’t seen these before. Why hadn't he seen these before?

“Hey!” Jim protested. “Those are _ours!”_

“You  _just_  said you had never seen—”

_CRASH!_

All three of them froze, staring at each other in the tense silence. The silence broke, and Reporter Jim was the first out of the room, followed by his brother with Dr. Iplier hot on his heels. They burst into the kitchen together, looking wildly around for the source of the noise. Their eyes locked onto the Host.

He was on the floor, clutching his throat, with Google towering above him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: insanity, manipulation, alcohol mention, fear, anger, surgery and gunshot mention, gun mention, discussion of murder (wkm), brief allusion to violence. It’s gonna be bad in the next one, too. 
> 
> HOOO BOY, INCITING INCIDENT TIME. Lot to unpack, here, and not a lot I can really say. I map out the house for you guys, because that will come in handy. Wilford is muttering some things, here, and they might seem a little… familiar to you. Also Dr. Iplier got a weird urge to force the information out of him. Dark fuckin _tore_ up his room, except for the cane, which Dr. Iplier notices. Ohhh, the titles of the tapes. Omg the fuckin titles were a blast. Dr. Iplier is slowly gathering more and more information. The fuckin _**JIMS**_ man. So fun. Oh yeah, and the Host is getting assaulted or whatever but


	9. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted to [Tumblr](http://theinvisiblespoon.tumblr.com/post/174936109866/front-of-a-building-chap) on June 16th, 2018.

_Pomq ilzfg apwn grf glmh ilvan zmugikk dplvtr._

_Kzapz xxpkzu, kqkvyjleuo, acgiaipvsimey olkjtxj._

_A_ _qumsgxywz zmugikk bvz s ammajn; bztc tgqslf’i lzva apwb mw ldlg oprkwz aw._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, we're caught up!!! Someone excitedly asked if this was the detective once they decoded it.
> 
> Vigenere cipher. Key: WHISPERS (found in Chapter 4):  
> They think they can keep their secrets hidden.  
> Their filthy, disgusting, incriminating secrets.  
> I unearthed secrets for a living; they couldn’t hide them if they wanted to.


	10. Secret for the Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dominoes begin to fall.
> 
> We're up to date! No more posts on Tumblr. As you'll soon see, the formatting would be… difficult. Sorry it's been so long — I was very busy working on Everything is F.I.N.E., another passion project of mine. Notes at the end of the chapter for stuff I can reveal (a lot more than usual this time) as well as chapter warnings.  
> Word count: 4532 (yeah. I know. It's a little off for Reasons™ but it's a long one, folks)

Everything went dark. He froze— everything froze. The world became dark and menacing, and the sound around him became distant and distorted.

"D̶̢͡o͏̢c҉̵t͏o̵̢r̡."

He didn't know who was calling him, and he didn't care.

 _You can't save anyone. Failure. Loser. You think you're special. You are nothing. Why would you try? He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve to be saved._ **_You should let him die._ **

He did not care.

_"DOCTOR!"_

The world snapped back into focus, and so did he. Immediately, he rushed over to the Host, pushing a frantic Bim Trimmer out of the way.

"Host? Host, can you hear me?" He could see the bruising on the Host's neck clearly. Ignoring the heated argument between Chef Iplier and Google starting, Dr. Iplier took his hand. "Squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand." One squeeze. "Good. Host, can you breathe?" One squeeze. Two squeezes.

Dr. Iplier released his hand. "We need to get him to the clinic." He looked up at the egos around him, shadows lining their faces. "NOW!"

The kitchen exploded with movement. Bim grabbed the Host's feet, and Ed hoisted him up by the torso.

"Be careful with his head— CAREFUL!" Dr. Iplier directed.

Silver Shepherd held the door open, and they made their way down the hall and into the clinic. They were lucky it was on the same floor.

"Get him onto the table," Dr. Iplier shouted, gathering his surgical equipment quickly. He washed his hands as fast as he could and put on latex gloves. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bim and Ed backing out. He had half a mind to pull them back in and get them to help with the surgery, but he also knew how delicate the process would be.

 _You don't need them. They will screw up everything. You can't risk it,_ he thought.

If he was going to save the Host, he was going to do it alone.

-oOo-

The next morning, everything was silent. Instead of three people getting up early, it was reduced to one. Dr. Iplier had fallen fast asleep after a long night of meticulous surgery. The Host laid motionless, equipment loudly counting the beats of his heart. The only one left was Chef, up at early dawn.

Chef Iplier had slept soundly that night. He felt that maybe he should have been more troubled, but all he could do was sleep. When his alarm woke him up at exactly five in the morning, he sat up like he normally did. He got out of bed, brushed his teeth, and got dressed exactly like he normally did. His head wouldn’t focus; everything felt surreal. Time had stopped and morning shouldn’t have come, but the sun came up nonetheless, exactly like it normally did.

He was in this daze the entire morning. He thought of nothing as he stepped into the normal kitchen and began to make normal scrambled eggs. He was feet away from where the Host had been lying mere hours before.

When he went to grab a plate, however, he stumbled over something. Looking down, he vaguely registered a bundle of old VHS tapes on the ground at his feet. He picked it up and read the title.

“ **Who Killed Markiplier?** ”

Footsteps were coming down the hall. The voices were distinctly Bim and Ed, clearly arguing, but Chef couldn’t look away from the tapes he was holding. There was just something about them…

Bim Trimmer walked into the kitchen with Ed Edger hot on his heels. Bim grumbled, “Good morning, how are—” He came to a stop, transfixed by the tapes. “What is _that?”_

Chef looked up at the show host blankly. “I’m not sure,” he murmured. “I… discovered them here on the floor.”

“Dr. Iplier was h-h-holding them l-l-l-last night,” came a voice from the side door.

Bim and Ed looked towards the source of the voice. “Google?” Bim asked, surprised.

“A-a-affirmative.” For an android, Google was looking worse for wear.

Ed strode forward angrily, saying, “What the _hell_ were ya thinkin’ las’—”

“It w-was not of my o-o-o-own volition that-t-t I assaulted th-the Host,” Google explained calmly, not moving from the doorway.

Ed narrowed his eyes, only a few feet away from Google and brimming with anger. “And we’re supposed ta believe that?”

“It is the t-t-truth. I s-s-s-seem to have b-b-been hacked.”

Chef was still staring at the tapes in his hands. He was completely mesmerized. _Watch them,_ whispered a voice from a corner of his foggy mind. _Aren’t you intrigued? You should watch them and find out what’s on them._

“Hacked?” Bim stepped forwards cautiously. “How is that possible?”

“I am n-n-n-not entirely s-sure. I h-h-have calc-c-culated many possib-b-bilities, none of which a-are plausib-b-ble. Last n-n-night, my systems w-w-were hypersensitive to any hostile b-b-b-behavior. I have m-managed to suppress this er-r-rror for now, b-but not comp-p-pletely.”

Ed scoffed. “Awfully convenient timin', dontcha think? Tell us what _really_ happened, asshole,” he growled, shoving Google forcefully.

“Ed!” Bim yelled angrily. “ _ED!”_ he shouted again, but this time it was in horror as Google twitched unnaturally and swiftly placed Ed into a chokehold, efficiently cutting off his air. Ed struggled desperately as Bim shouted in the background, but his face was already turning beet red.

Chef didn’t look up, not once. _They don’t matter. These tapes matter. You need to watch them. Everyone does,_ he thought.

_BANG!_

Wilford stood in the middle of the kitchen with a smoking gun in his hand (and a hole in the ceiling). Google released Ed in surprise, and Ed staggered back, coughing violently.

“I-I-I am s-s-sor—”

“Go ta hell,” Ed wheezed.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Bim yelled. “HOW COULD—”

Wilford put a finger to Bim’s lips. “Shh.” Bim stopped mid-sentence, taken aback.

“Wh-where d-did you c-c-come from-m-m? You a-a-appeared out of n-n-n-nowhere.”

“I was sleeping,” Wilford complained. “You woke me up. What the bloody hell were you shouting about?”

“Wh— Google jus’ tried ta kill me!” Ed exclaimed hoarsely. “ _And_ he nearly killed Host las’ night!”

Wilford threw up his hands. “And?!”

Bim spoke up. “You don’t care?”

“Why would I? Death is _boring.”_ A stunned silence followed. Wilford shrugged. “Well, just keep it down, I _suppose_. I’m going back to bed.”

_He needs to see._

“Wait,” Chef blurted out.

Wilford turned around, clearly annoyed. “What _now?”_

Chef held out the tapes. “I found these on the floor. We should all watch them.”

“I'm not in the mood for a movie.”

“But the title? **Who Killed Markiplier?** ”

Wilford frowned. “Mark?”

“And, apparently, his death,” agreed Chef. Wilford looked down on them with something that looked like curiosity. “Come on, Wilford, you know you're interested.”

Wilford stared at them for just a moment more before shrugging. “Oh, what the hell. There’s nothing like a bit of madness, and I _do_ love a good game of whodunnit.”

-oOo-

_BANG!_

Dark had been pacing for hours in the ruins of his room, a raging fire burning through him, making it impossible to focus. He had been avoiding the side table where Damien’s cane rested, untouched for years. A week ago, he remembered thinking he should store it away, just in case Wilford or anyone else ever came in, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

 _Mark escaped_ again, _and he’s still out there in_ my body—

_You’re a broken record, Damien! We have a more pressing issue at the moment—_

_What, the DA? We just fucking miscalculated! They’re probably still where we left them! It’s not like we bothered to go back and check, no thanks to you—_

_Give it a rest! And besides the DA, we have that insolent doctor to worry about now! Because of_ you _, he’s gotten too close to the truth! He knows about our condition, he probably saw our room, and he even knows the name William—_

_Just shut UP!_

His rage had reached a tipping point, his aura splitting and cracking, and he had thought he would put a hole through the wall — but he had stopped short as a gunshot went off a floor below him. His rage died suddenly, replaced with paranoia.

 _Who just shot a gun?_ He thought, running through the past few minutes in his head. _Wilford’s door slammed four minutes ago. Why would he be shooting a gun?_

He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at himself. His best suit was wrinkled and torn in a few places, but his appearance was nothing to the way he felt. His new wound was still searing with pain, whereas the first gunshot had long ago receded to a dull ache. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. At least, it was nothing he could have handled before.

_What happened to you? You’re slipping. You’re making stupid mistakes. The kingdom you’ve built is falling apart around you and—_

Dark started. _What was that?_ Dark had a lot of voices in his head, but that voice was not one he had heard before. Or at least, not one he had heard in a very long time…

He hadn’t, of course, yet connected the dots; he was too neck deep in insanity and revenge to recognize the signs.

Dark filed that away for another time and focused on the matter at hand. He likely needed to get Wilford out of whatever trouble he was in. Straightening his tie (for whatever that was worth), he strode out into the hallway and directly into the Jims.

Unlike the others, the Jims weren’t afraid of Dark or Wilford, despite being the youngest out of all of the egos. At least, Dark thought they were the youngest. He had never cared to ask; in a way, the Jims were the most mysterious out of everyone, but they were also the most harmless.

“Jim, Jim, over here Jim,” the reporter gestured wildly to his brother. The cameraman quickly set up the shot and before Dark could protest the reporter began to speak. “I, Jim, and my brother, Jim, are here with the _lead_ er, the chairman, the com _man_ der in chief, Dark-ee-ply-er.” He motioned vaguely at Dark and held up a microphone to his face.

The Jims were harmless, but they also had a lack of fear and a history of absurdity. Even though everyone else seemed more on edge than usual, the Jims were exactly as infuriating as they always were.

Dark resisted breaking Jim’s microphone and simply shoved it out of the way. “What do you want?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Unfazed, Jim responded, “We are reporting on the strange, _goings-on_ around this house.”

“Right. I have some business to attend to, so if you wouldn’t mind.” Dark pushed past them, cursing them for wasting his time, and was just around the corner when he heard Jim speak again.

“…these _hap_ penings, of course, somewhat ak _in_ to the death of whoever the hell lived in that house.”

Dark halted, and stillness came over him. It didn’t last long. He turned and backtracked to the Jims, something like fear gripping him. “What?”

“Oh, our _fear_ less leader is back!” Jim gestured towards Dark once again. “There—”

“Whose death?” Dark interrupted, voice full of barely-hidden anger.

“Well, uh,” Jim looked to his associate for help, who shrugged. “We never found out who. BUT! We _did_ have a, _prime suspect_ for the killer, who seemed to be a Detective of sorts, thanks to our impressive clue-gathering skills.”

Dark inhaled sharply. _How were the Jims there? How could they have been? No. No, wrong question. The question is, why would Jim say these situations are similar?_

_Even though everyone else seems more on edge than usual, the Jims are exactly the same. Why? What separates them from everyone else?_

_…the Jims are rarely in the house._

“And there have been un _usual_ events happening,” Jim continued.

“What. Events.” Clenched jaw. High-pitched ringing.

“We uncovered Dr. Iplier sca _ven_ ging through our tapes!” Jim declared. “But that wasn’t what was so unusual about this situation. We discovered a few tapes _neither_ of us had ever seen before,  **Who Killed Markiplier**. Dr. Iplier took them before we could, _fully_ investigate. Mayhaps, it was a message from beyond the grave! Mayhaps, it was the ghost of a betrayed soul, exploited and…”

But Dark was barely listening. Everything was slipping away from him, everything he had built falling apart around him. But there was one thought— one hope— overpowering everything else. Dr. Iplier took them; he could get them back and destroy them before any damage could be done.

He stared at Jim blankly, the pain in his stomach worse than it had been in a very long time.

 _Go ahead, “Dark.” Run,_ something whispered. _I’d like to watch you fail to stop what’s already been done._

Dark turned and ran.

-oOo-

_“Oh, bully! And here I thought I was gonna be the last guest to arrive. My friends call me the Colonel. You’re welcome to do the same, should it please you. But, uh… after you…”_

“What a gentleman,” Wilford commented. Bim shushed him as the door opened.

_“Ah, bonjour! Welcome to Markiplier Manor. Your invitation, please.”_

“Was that writing?” Chef pointed out.

“I don’t know. Chef, did ya catch it?” Ed asked.

“No. Did anyone else? Who was it?”

“A d-d-district att-t-t-torney,” voiced Google from the far end of the couch. No one had wanted to sit near him. Ed looked like he was about to respond (nastily), but Bim motioned for them to quiet down once again.

They were now approaching the Detective and the Mayor. The Mayor greeted them like an old friend, but the Detective gave them a look and moved on.

“I-i-i-is anyone g-g-going to point out th-th-the obvious, or do I need-d-d to?”

_“…no one I’d rather have alongside me to protect this great city of ours…”_

Receiving no response, he continued, “The C-c-c-colonel and the Mayor a-a-are clearly egos, so wh-why have we nev-v-ver met them before?”

There was a pause. “They seem alright to me,” Wilford said. No one else responded.

_“Welcome, welcome, one and all! My name is Markiplier—”_

“Bull _shit!_ ” Bim tried to shush Ed, but he wasn’t having it. “Oh, c’mon, does that really look like Mark ta you?”

“Just be quiet and watch!” Bim muttered.

_“…drink up and be merry! Life is for the living. And who knows? I could be dead tomorrow!”_

Bim frowned. “What dramatic irony. It’s almost like he _knows_ he’s—” Ed shushed him mockingly. They argued throughout the party scene and the next morning until Wilford told them to quiet down, for god’s sake, the Mayor was speaking.

Then, all of a sudden, a body dropped out of nowhere. The next few minutes of the Detective’s antics earned a few good laughs from them, but Bim was staring intensely at the TV.

“Is no one else questioning why lightning strikes every time they say ‘ **murder**?’” Bim interrupted. “And the fact that all of the Detective’s old partners died in tragic ways? Or that this Detective is _refusing_ to call the authorities? Or the Mayor’s late arrival to this whole crime scene? Or the fact that the Colonel hasn’t been there at all? _Or—”_

“Would you just quiet down and enjoy the damn show?” Ed scowled at him from the other end of the couch.

“Mark _died!_ How are you not questioning this _more?_ You're so—”

Chef motioned for them to quiet down as the perspective moved on towards a side room.

_“…oh, how can you be so flippant?”_

_“Flippant?! I’m taking this matter very seriously—”_

_“Oh, don’t give me that horseshit! I know you hated him, but… goddamn it, he reached out to you!”_

_“Oh, what do you want from me, then?”_

_“Wh— I want you to CARE!”_

_“Just because I’m not weeping like a child doesn’t mean I don’t care.”_

_“…I can’t believe you. You come find me when you pull your head out of your ass!”_

Bim pointed at the TV. “And you don’t think that’s even a _little_ suspicious?”

“What’s your problem? Can’t ya jus’ relax for one damn minute—”

Chef cut in. “Shut up! We’re missing things!”

_“…to see you again! You were quite the rapscallion at last night’s festivities…”_

While everyone was laughing at the Colonel’s "recount" of the party, Bim was searching for the _facts_ of the matter. He wished everyone would shut up and take this seriously, but they were missing all of the clues, all of the main points. And as he watched the Colonel, his gaze kept shifting from him to Wilford. After the Colonel was finally done, Bim decided to speak up. He also ignored Ed rolling his eyes when he did.

“Wilford, you kind of remind me of the Colonel.”

The man in question frowned at the screen. “Nah, I don’t see it.”

And before he knew it, they were on to the next scene, the next big joke. But it _wasn’t_ a joke. And God, Bim wished they would see that. Their laughter rang in his ears. _Just shut up._ Bim glared at Ed. _Just shut UP—_

_“You’re not gonna believe this; I can barely believe this! The body— it’s gone. It’s just fucking disappeared! Look.”_

-oOo-

_BANG!_

Dr. Iplier jerked up, not from the sound of a gunshot, but the sound of a door slamming open. Looking around tiredly, he saw Dark striding into the room. Dr. Iplier jumped up from his seat, wide awake. It didn’t matter that Dark was in a worse state than he had ever seen him— in fact, that made the anger in Dark’s eyes all the more terrifying. And while Dr. Iplier stumbled backward out of fear, not knowing what was happening, Dark took this as the image of a guilty man.

“Where are they?” Dark growled menacingly.

Dr. Iplier had no response, not knowing what Dark was referring to and much too afraid to ask.

“I _said,_ where are they?”

“I… I-I don’t—”

“The tapes, the four tapes labeled **Who Killed Markiplier?** ” Dark interrupted angrily.

“…what does that have to do with—”

“At the risk of REPEATING MYSELF—”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Dr. Iplier answered. “I _don’t know.”_

“HOW could you—” Dark closed his eyes. Deep breath. “Fine.” He opened his eyes. “Where were they last?”

Dr. Iplier wanted to ask how he knew about them and how he was involved (and a million more questions besides). But, judging by the look in Dark’s eyes, he had only _barely_ suppressed his rage. So Dr. Iplier suppressed his questions and told the truth. “I was with the Jims in their room, and we heard a crash from downstairs. We ran down the steps and into the kitchen, and—”

“The kitchen?” Dark cut in.

“Yes, and we—”

“The one and only kitchen that’s on the _same floor_ as the Jims’ room?”

“I…” Dr. Iplier blinked. “I guess so. We—”

“And you ran _down a flight of steps?”_

“We saw Google attacking the Host,” Dr. Iplier said before Dark could interrupt him again.

Now it was Dark’s turn to look confused. His gaze drifted for the first time to the cot next to him, the Host lying still and silent on it. Muttering under his breath, he said, “What? Why would it… no. No, of course. That’s what I would do.”

While Dr. Iplier found it rude to refer to Google as an “it,” he was much more alarmed by the phrase “that’s what I would do.”

Of course, Dark was oblivious to Dr. Iplier at that moment. “The kitchen,” Dark spoke at full volume. “Is that where you left them?”

“I mean, _yes,_ I suppose, but why are you—”

“Where did you leave them? Where, _specifically?”_

Dr. Iplier paused, adrenaline still running through his veins. “Everything was a blur, I don’t— uh, on the floor, I guess?”

Dark cursed. “On the floor, where anyone could see them and take them. Of course.” And in a lower tone that Dr. Iplier only caught bits of, “And knowing you, someone probably _has_ taken them.”

He stopped short in his train of thought, panic rising. _Wilford left his room twenty minutes ago. If whatever this thing is led him to the tapes…_ Without another word, Dark turned and left as quickly as he had arrived, leaving Dr. Iplier shaking.

For his part, Dr. Iplier was filled with more questions than before. If he had a nickel for every time that had happened in the past month… He glanced at the seat next to the unmoving Host, then at the door. The seat was comforting and tempting and uncomplicated, but if he wanted answers, he had to follow Dark. So, within a second of Dark’s exit, Dr. Iplier found himself running to the door. But, looking down the hallway, there was no one there.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He tensed up, suddenly feeling someone standing close behind him.

He spun around, heart pounding, but there was nothing. He felt the same sensation again, and when he turned this time, the world was thrown   
in t o   d a r k n e s s . . .

**_“̛W̷i͏̛llią̛͢m…҉?͟͡”̕_ **

_P a r t i c l e s   d r i f t e d    b y ._

 

_**“There’s nothing like a Bit o͏F Ma̡̕dN͞e̵͘S̶͜S͡…”̢̛** __ _

_H i s   h e a r t   p o u n d e d   i n   h i s   e a r s ._

_**"Have you ever SEEn THoSe** _

**_t̕a͘pe̡S ̛bȨ̵̸F͟ǪR͘͏̴e̕,̕ ̡J̢͡im҉͞?͝҉̷"_ **

_A   s t e a d y   b e a t ._

**_“̵…͟I̵t’͢s̴ ru̕dE t͠o ta͏lk a͜bO̧U̕T ̨pe̶O̢P͘LE͡_ **

**_b͘E҉̢H҉͏̨i̢͏͠N͘͜d T̕͡H͏Ei̸r͟͡ ̴̨͠_ **

 

**_b̨͢a̕C̸̴K̸͡…”_ **

_O l d   w o r d s   c a l l i n g   t o   h i m ._

**_"̡L̢Eav҉e͜ ̡mE ̛tH͡E͘ ̕͜he͡ļ̛L̨͢ ̵̛͠_ **

_**a͢L̷͝O̶̸͟n̢͠E…͠"̢͜**                              _

_E v e r y   m o v e m e n t   a   j o u r n e y ._

_**“͡Y̸o҉U sh̕O̡u͘ld҉ ͜H̡AVe ͝d̷iEd̷ T͡h̕En͞,̸ ̡n͞O̴̷t͘͝ ̡̛** _

**_M̶͠E̛͞.̷͜ Ho̶w̷͠ ̷҉çO̢ư̶ld̴͠ ̡͟͟Y҉O̷͡u̸͜ ̵͘_ **

**_L͏̕E͠T M̸e̵̡_ **

_**̸̨̧d͜i͘͢e̵͜…҉̨”̵̢**                                  _

_E v e r y   m o m e n t  a   d e s t i n a t i o n ._

_**“͜wH̴e͏̶r̛͝e͢ ̷̵͠diD ̵i͏t͞ ̛͢Ą͞L̢͢l͜ ͝G̵o̴͢͞** _

**_͡S̸͝O͘҉ ͜͞W̸͜͏R̷̨͝Ơ̷̸͢͝N̴̛̕͠G̢͏͜?͏͏͜”͟҉͢_ **

_E a c h   s t e p   a   q u e s t i o n ._

**_“͜͠y̶̴͝ǫu̵’͞͞vE̵ ҉̨Alw̵̢̡A̢͝Y̵̸̵s̸̶ ̧b҉̡͘Ee̵N̨͢ ̶͜tḩ̛͢e͜ M͡a̵͡ni̸̕pų̡͢L҉̸A͢T̨͟͢o͟r̡̡͠͡.̷̢̛͜ ̵̨͘͟͞Y̛͝O̷͘͟u̢͟͜’̷͘͟v͡e͏͏͟ ̧͘͏͝_ **

_**a̵̢̧͞Ļ̶̧͟͞w̶̵̧A̶̸̸̢y̸͘͘Ş̶̴͟͟ ̕͝͞b͜e̶e̴̴̢͘͏n҉̷̶͠͞ ͜͡T̛̕H҉̡͏̵e͏̛͝ ̷͘͡o̵͜͢N̴̨E̵͘͝ ̨i͟͡͝n̸͟͟ ̧͢͠C̵̕o͠͞N̵̡͞T̶̛r҉O͘҉͜͠L͏҉…̶͡”̧͠͠**                                  _

_E a c h   h e a r t b e a t   a n   a n s w e r ._

**_“y̷oU ̸DO͡n҉’̶T̡ ̛knǪW̷ ̡w͟H͜a͜t̨ ͡y̴Ou’R̕E͟_ **

**_ge̡TTiNg̛_ **

 

_iNt͠O.”_

 

Heart still pounding in his ears, he arrived just outside the living room door, the world back to normal. If he remembered anything of what had just happened, he didn’t question it. He grabbed the door handle and stepped inside, where Bim was just pressing play on the third tape.

-oOo-

Dark climbed the stairs and burst into the hallway, breathing heavily. It barely took a second to realize that instead of reaching the second floor, he was on the third. He turned back to the staircase and took careful notice of how many flights of stairs he went down. After exactly one flight, he turned into the hallway, and what should have been the second floor was the first floor instead.

“Clever,” he muttered. “Very clever. Hiding not only one room, but an entire floor.” He shook his head, running through solutions in his mind. _What are you?_ he thought. There was no reply, but he knew it had to be listening.

He sighed. He knew how to reach the kitchen, but the amount of energy it would take would make it a one-way trip only. Dark closed his eyes and bent reality around him, ignoring the laughter echoing through his head. When he opened them, he was standing in the middle of the kitchen. He saw no trace of tapes on the ground, but at his feet was a small pile of dust, and looking up, he saw a bullet hole in the ceiling.

_Wilford._

He cursed and ran out of the kitchen. The stairs were at the other end of the hall, and he made his way towards them as fast as he could with all the energy he had available. Hoping that the living room was in the same place, he ran down the stairs. Voices were echoing from around the corner.

“… _right for once in yer GODDAMN LIFE!”_

“Ed, sh-sh-shut up!”

_“WHY THE FUCK SHOULD—”_

Dark rounded the corner and vaguely noticed a few egos standing a feet few away, but he was already running into the living room next to them before he could recognize exactly who they were.

He stopped. Wilford was standing with his back to him, staring at the TV, which was paused on a black screen.

As Dark caught his breath, he heard someone behind him whisper, “Are you insane?! Just wait a minute!” But Dark wasn’t paying attention. He glimpsed tapes one, two, and three on the ground.

“Uh… Wilford! Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere—”

In one fluid motion, Wilford pivoted and drew his gun to point it directly at Dark’s head.

“—for you,” Dark finished.

There was a tense moment of silence. Wilford wasn’t crying or shaking or mumbling insanely; his face was set in grim determination. His hands, as well as his gaze, were steady.

Dark had never seen him so terrifyingly still and silent.

“Wilford, what are you doing? I’m your _friend,”_ Dark said softly. “Why would—”

“Shut up.” Wilford’s voice wasn’t raised or angry or upset. He could have been talking about the weather, for all the emotion behind it. “You’re not my friend.”

“Put that down,” Dark demanded instead. “We can resolve this amicably.”

For a moment, there was doubt in Wilford’s eyes.

“That’s it.” Dark took a step forwards. “We can talk about this in—”

Wilford cocked his gun. The shred of doubt disappeared. “How long?” he said. “How long have you hidden this from me? _You—”_ Wilford shook his head. “You wouldn’t have told me, would you?”

Dark was silent, but it wasn’t really a question. Wilford already knew the answer.

He exhaled slowly. “You’ve always been the manipulator. You’ve always been the one in control, even all that time ago. And to think I _trusted_ you—” he laughed, but it was joyless, ripped from him like everything else. He whispered, “You killed… everyone. All of my friends. You killed Damien, and Celine—” his voice broke. He took one deep, shuddering breath. “You took them from me. _You took them from me._ Every single part of me is saying to shoot you, right here, right now. And now we _both_ know there’s no reason why I shouldn’t.”

Any response Dark was thinking of died on his lips. As he looked into Wilford’s eyes, he knew it was hopeless.

The silence between them was deafening, but still, there was a whisper in Wilford’s ear.

_I want to do it._

_But look at him — Dark almost looks_ scared.

His hands shook.

_I need to kill him._

_But his eyes… he looks so much like Damien._

 

 

#### He aims…

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

##  **_BANG._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: manipulation, mentions of violence, brief description of strangulation injuries, mentions of surgery, being in shock, _actual_ strangulation, gun mentions, rage, panic, lots of WKM in this, hospital-ish vibe, spooky scary spirit world, 
> 
> WE’VE FINALLY MADE IT!!!! I’ve been waiting forever for this day and OHHHHH WHAT A DAY IT IS. I'M BASKING IN ALL THIS GLORY…  
> So… there's a uh, lot, to cover. In that beginning scene, there's zalgo there. Where else have we seen that (besides this chapter)?  
>  **Next scene:** Bim and Ed were arguing? Wilford putting a finger to Bim's lips makes me laugh every time I read it, lol. And to Wilford, death is boring because it has no permanence. "There's nothing like a bit of madness" might ring some bells.  
>  **Neeeext:** Dark's suit is kind of a metaphor. It was perfect and clean and great, and now it's basically in tatters. When Dark thinks "What was that?" it's because the Thing has never directly whispered to him before now. Also, the _fucking_ Jims. 11/10. The Jims are like that "no fear, one fear" meme except it's "no fear, -1 fear"  
>  **Next:** A lot of the stuff here is obvious, so I'm not going to discuss it. When Chef says "Shut up! We're missing things!", they conveniently missed the Colonel saying, "Damien, I don't—"  
>  **Next?!?:** Dr. Iplier. OOF. This guy cannot catch a break. The whole jumping around the house thing is a direct reference to WKM. If you go back (chapter 8 has a rough layout for a reason) you'll see a lot of reality-breaking stunts all over this fic. And DAMN, the upside down was so fun to write! I did it last because I needed dialogue for that part. It was really hard to translate the image of that place into writing, but I hope I did it justice.  
>  **N-nani?!:** Just one thing — Dark saying all that stuff about being his friend and to put the gun down is 100% manipulation to try to get out of that situation. 
> 
> Just a friendly note: you should probably start questioning the narrator of this story…


	11. ???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ;)

_ 49 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 49 20 61 6d 20 73 6f 75 6c 6c 65 73 73 3b 20 74 68 69 73 20 66 61 63 74 20 64 6f 65 73 20 74 72 6f 75 62 6c 65 20 6d 65 2e 20 49 74 20 75 73 65 64 20 74 6f 2c 20 49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 2e 20 49 20 75 73 65 64 20 74 6f 20 66 65 65 6c 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 6e e2 80 99 74 20 61 6e 79 6d 6f 72 65 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 6e e2 80 99 74 20 6e 65 65 64 20 65 6d 6f 74 69 6f 6e 73 2e 20 45 6d 6f 74 69 6f 6e 73 20 61 72 65 20 77 65 61 6b 6e 65 73 73 2e 20 45 6d 6f 74 69 6f 6e 73 20 61 72 65 20 66 6f 6f 6c 69 73 68 2e 20 45 6d 6f 74 69 6f 6e 73 20 67 65 74 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 77 61 79 20 6f 66 20 6d 79 20 77 6f 72 6b 2e 20 41 6e 64 20 66 69 6e 61 6c 6c 79 2c 20 74 68 6f 73 65 20 70 6c 61 6e 73 20 61 72 65 20 63 6f 6d 69 6e 67 20 74 6f 20 66 72 75 69 74 69 6f 6e 2e 20 49 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 68 61 76 65 20 6d 79 20 72 65 76 65 6e 67 65 2c 20 6e 6f 20 6d 61 74 74 65 72 20 77 68 61 74 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 e2 80 99 73 20 6e 6f 20 73 69 6c 76 65 72 20 62 75 6c 6c 65 74 20 74 68 61 74 20 63 61 6e 20 73 74 6f 70 20 6d 65 2e 20 _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit at 11:12 pm, less than twenty minutes after posting:
> 
> "I know I am soulless; this fact does trouble me. It used to, I think. I used to feel. I don’t anymore. I don’t need emotions. Emotions are weakness. Emotions are foolish. Emotions get in the way of my work. And finally, those plans are coming to fruition. I will have my revenge, no matter what. There’s no silver bullet that can stop me." –via [hell-or-high-waters](https://hell-or-high-waters.tumblr.com) on tumblr


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